Poet
Behind a plough of words the poet drives a furrow,
– never straight.
Phrases spiral upwards, as an eagle soars in a sky with no horizon or meter.
Universal alphabet mimics dancing clouds and touches Creation’s syntax.
Cascading into passages that hover, tracing cosmic runes
at the edge of knowing.
Words drift by on the morning mist. A whisper of wind,
That haunts every thought I breathe.
The Muse –
waiting wondrous so long,
for cracks in façade’s order to crumble. Then she grants life to a poem.